


first star of the night

by arabesque05



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tanger wanders over then, too. He shoves at Brandon’s head, affectionately, and says to Sid, almost over Brandon’s head, “Give him a good congrats, eh?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hauntologie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntologie/gifts).



> who held my hand through this, and titled this, and then wrote me fic about baby goalies and sid/geno marrieds. thanks.
> 
> (post 3/12/13 pens-bruins game)

After the game has been won and the stars given out, Brandon stumbles into the locker room. The entire team is rowdy and laughing, cheeks still flushed and eyes still bright with adrenaline. Everyone is shoving at each other, the sort of good-humor that only comes after a win--and when Brandon passes by, they reach out to ruffle his hair. “Good job,” they tell him, and the bright feeling in Brandon’s chest glows warmer. “You did good,” they tell him, and Brandon can only smile back.  
  
Sidney follows him into the locker room, shucking off his pads and hockey pants almost before he gets to the bench; but then, right after, he comes over to Brandon. Sid’s face is still bright with joy, as bright it had been after that third goal ( _Brandon’s_ goal)--but that’s just Sidney, Brandon’s learned. Sidney never dims. Sidney is always intense about everything.  
  
“That was really good,” says Sidney, vague--or maybe all inclusive, as if _everything_ had been ‘really good. “Amazing.”  
  
As if prompted by Sidney’s presence, Neal sidles down the bench. He gives a not-so-gentle punch to Brandon’s shoulder, and tells him, “You are so clutch, man.” Then he breaks into a snorting laugh. “CLUTCH-ER!”  
  
Tanger wanders over then, too. He shoves at Brandon’s head, affectionately, and says to Sid, almost over Brandon’s head, “Give him a good congrats, eh?”  
  
Sid laughs, a little breathlessly, and Brandon’s not quite sure what this is about (but the Penguins are so strange. Brandon thought Carolina was weird, but the Pens. They never bat an eye at anything.)  
  
The team is catcalling now. Engelland lets out a wolf whistle. Flower, from all the way across the room, calls, “Yeah--good game, Sutsy! Enjoy, eh!" Neal laughs a “fuck off” at Flower, as Tanger hauls Brandon to his feet; and then Sidney is shoving Brandon out the doors and down the medical hall.  
  
The hallway floor is cold against Brandon’s bare feet. Behind him, Sidney is still flush-cheeked and smiling, saying, “What a game winner. Oh, man--that was a good game; didn't you think that was a good game?”  
  
Of course Brandon thinks so, but he’s a little biased, probably. Besides, more than half of it had been Sidney anyway: the entire momentum shift in the early second, that was Sid, and--  
  
Sid waves it off, as if his performance is off-topic or somehow unexceptional. (Penguins: so weird.) They stop in front of a closet, and Sidney opens the door. Brandon wonders if he should expect a pie of shaving cream to the face, or to be swamped in packing peanuts, or--  
  
But Sid pushes Brandon forward, crowding him into the closet, and--Brandon always forgets how solid, how strong Sidney is; almost a full twenty pounds heavier than Brandon, and all of it muscle. There’s no give to him at all. When Brandon is backed into the closet, and when Sidney has closed the door behind them, Sid says, still with that excited breathlessness, “Sorry, you don't mind, right? We just get a bit amped up after games. It's tradition almost--” Brandon stares as Sidney drops to his knees. “Think of it like a celebration.”  
  
He tugs at Brandon’s shorts. And Brandon--in a closet, and his captain on his knees, and his pants pulled down--  
  
Oh, thinks Brandon. _Oh_.  
  
Sidney pauses for a moment, glancing up. But Brandon’s been pretty much half hard since he took off his cup, blood still rushing from that third goal ( _Brandon’s_ goal); and the captain on his knees in front of him, with that mouth, all red and plump and meant to be stretched; and not even offering anything, just--just--  
  
 _Tradition_ , Sidney said, _a celebration_.  
  
“Uh-huh,” says Brandon, hardening more. “Yes. Yes--okay, yes.”  
  
Sid smiles at that, a quick flash of white in the dim light of the closet, and--  
  
Sidney Crosby, Brandon learns, sucks cock pretty much the way he does everything else: without a lot of flash, but with a lot of skill and determination and talent. There is a lot of spit, pretty much from the get go; but Sid doesn't really tease. He sucks on the cockhead a few times, and then slides down the shaft and tongues the vein on the underside. His hands shove Brandon's hips back against the wall, and then come up to cup Brandon's balls, gentle; before he slides them up the shaft, working the spit down, where Sid's mouth can't reach.  
  
And the noise, Jesus fuck, all wet slurping and louding sucking, and Sid moaning around Brandon's cock. It's like Sidney’s not shy about this at all--like it really is tradition, and they're not concerned about keeping quiet, because the rest of the team knows already where they’ve gone and what they are doing and--  
  
Brandon bites his knuckles and tries to keep quiet, but the thought of it--being blown by his captain in a closet, and the rest of the team knowing, and sending them off like, like they did--  
  
The curl of heat low in his belly flares, and there is a sweet ache in his balls, as they draw up. And Sidney’s mouth is still working him so steadily, all wet smooth heat and gentle suction, and Brandon wants to--he wants to--  
  
He looks down, and sees Sid's mouth stretched obscenely red around his cock. Sidney’s hair are still soaked damp with sweat and falling in boyish curls over his forehead, and his entire face is flushed with color. There is an obvious bulge in the front of Sid's own pants, but he doesn't reach for it--just keeps his hands on Brandon's cock, stroking in time to his mouth.  
  
Brandon bites down harder on his knuckles. It would be embarrassing to come so fast, and however good it feels, it can’t--it _can’t_ be the best blowjob he’s ever had. But then Sid sucks a little harder, and works his hands a little rougher, one teasing downwards, to stroke lightly on Brandon's balls; and Sid's eyes flicker upward, that bright clear gaze--and Sidney is still Brandon's captain, Sidney is his captain and--  
  
There couldn't be a clearer meaning, what that look meant.  
  
So Brandon comes in Sidney's mouth, who doesn’t pull off, who keeps sucking gently, working his hands, sweetly milking. Brandon groans his way through it, trembling in his thighs and limbs, and everything is a hot rush, pulled out of him--and still, Sidney sucks him through it, patient and focused, until Brandon twitches, too sensitive.  
  
Then Sidney pulls off, a wet pop of sound. He stands, stiff in the knees, and pulls Brandon's shorts up and tucks him away. Brandon pants, sagging back against the wall, exhausted all of a sudden. Then his eyes catch on Sidney’s mouth--worn all red and raw--and stare because there is a fleck of white at the corner of Sidney's mouth.  
  
 _Oh shit_ , thinks Brandon. _Oh fuck_ , and doesn’t know if to tell Sidney or--how would he even say it--or should he--  
  
“Great,” says Sid, hoarse. “Awesome.”  
  
Brandon has no idea if this is about the blowjob, or if they are still talking about the game, and what is Sidney’s voice anyway; like some chainsmoker, or gravel in honey, or--  
  
“Yeah,” says Brandon faintly. Then, because the bulge is still there in Sidney’s shorts, and because Brandon has been raised right, he says, “Um--do you, do want some help? With that?”  
  
“Hmm?” asks Sidney, licking his lips. ( _Thank God_ , thinks Brandon, but also a little mournfully, all of a sudden struck by the desire to see Sidney with his entire face comestreaked.) Brandon gestures, and Sidney looks down. “Oh!” says Sidney, with an absurd little laugh. “No, that’s--no, I’m good. You good? Great. Okay, post game,” and claps his hands, like they are breaking for practice or something. Then he opens the door, and leads Brandon back to the locker room.  
  
The rest of the team is mostly showered already, but not yet changed into their street clothes. They’re waiting on Dan, to come back from his media scrum. Brandon returns to the room to not as many wolf whistles as he'd expected, but a few ass slaps and way more shouts of "CLUTCH-ER" than he really knows what to do with (it is a terrible nickname, and he hopes it doesn’t stick; it makes him sound like some sort of sexual offender).  
  
He goes back to his stall, because apparently that was the celebration and they are done now and it is going to be something they never talk about again. Brandon is okay with that. That was great but--Sidney _Crosby_. It’s a good thing probably that Brandon is not expected to play at this sort of level all the time. He doesn’t know if he could handle it. He doesn’t know if Sidney would just suck all his brains out from his dick if this kept happening.  
  
He sneaks a look over at Sid, who--has stripped off his under armour top and become distracted by Geno coming in through the doors. Sid tosses the shirt on the bench and then makes a straight line for Geno, face serious. Even from across the room, Brandon can see shop talk about to happen, Sid's mouth already rounding itself around "power play".  
  
But Geno holds up a hand to Sid and slants a look at Brandon. He smiles. It is about the worst smile Brandon's ever been given. Well, Geno's smiles are all sort of terrible: either sly and knowing and TOO BAD YOU'RE NOT RUSSIAN in subtext; or FUCK YOU in subtext. This one, though, basically agrees that Sid's mouth is a terrible and talented thing; and concurs that it should be illegal; and also asks politely if Brandon enjoyed his blowjob? in the closet? where no one was keeping quiet? Geno would understand if Brandon enjoyed it.  
  
Then Geno turns his attention back to Sid, whose expression is a cross between ‘captain’ and ‘whiny’; and then in the space of two breaths, they descend into a really serious discussion about the Bruins' penalty kill--Sidney’s hands motioning all over the place, and Geno nodding along.  
  
Brandon turns back to his stall. (For a moment, he wonders how this "tradition" started, anyway; and who it first "celebrated"; and then he thinks about who the offensive powerhouses are on the team, and how Sid is still in sweat soaked under armour and still a little hard in his shorts and how he had made straight line for Geno anyway. Then Brandon carefully stops thinking. There are some things you do not need to know about your captain and alternate.)  
  
Still. All in all.  
  
A pretty good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [hauntologie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntologie/pseuds/hauntologie) asked, "how _did_ the tradition start?" and i said, "that is a terrible question; stop asking for backstory," which was super effective deterrent because i definitely did not write--

**i.**  Maybe it starts like this: in the middle of that Carolina series in the playoffs— _G_ _eno’s_  Carolina series, with his hat tricks, with his ridiculous goals; coming to the bench and being swallowed in embraces; Max hooting at Geno across the boards, “Boy, you’re getting laid tonight!” and the hats showering down from the stands and the team shoving at Sid’s helmet, as if to say,  _get him laid, fuck does he deserve it._

**ii**. Or maybe it starts like this: post-Stanley-Cup-Finals, drunk on champagne and adrenaline and victory. “How’re my hands, huh, Geno?” crows Max. “How are my hands? Suck it, Malkin.” 

Geno pries open another champagne bottle, and replies, “Lucky bounce.”

“Oi, Captain!” Max whirls on Sidney. “You hear this? Didn’t I just fucking win a Stanley Cup for you? Shouldn’t I be congratulated? And this guy here—”

Geno takes a swig of his champagne, and says, “I congratulate, I congratulate.” Then he puts hand in Sid’s sweaty curls, and presses his nose against Sid’s temple, says quietly, “Rest knee,” and then heaves himself to his feet—and, bottle still in one hand, drags Max by the wrist out of the locker room.

“God fucking damn it,” says Max, when they come back—Max with color high in his cheeks and Geno with a redder mouth than when he’d left. Sidney leans back against the wall and feels some of the tension leave his shoulders when Geno drops into the space next to him again, long legs sprawled out. “God fucking damn it,” says Max again. “What is your life, seriously,” he says to Sidney, and then shakes his head, and goes to hunt down something harder than champagne.

Sid turns rolls his neck until he’s looking at Geno. Geno slumps back against the wall as well, and then reaches over to clink his still half-full champagne bottle against Sidney’s. “Champions,” he says.

Sidney beams back. “Champions.”

 

**iii.** Or maybe it starts like this: welcoming in the New Year with a shootout win, the winter night air sharp in Sidney’s lungs, snow flurrying down—and even with the fireworks going, the roar of 73,000 in the stands, even with all that, it feels like all the road hockey and pond hockey Sidney played, all the games of shinny from his boyhood. The team piles together in the middle of the ice, shoving gloved hands into each other’s face—Sidney did not think it possible to love hockey so much, this team so much, until it weighs like an ache in the heart.

He follows Geno off the ice, into the halls of a football stadium. In front of him, Geno turns his head a little, slanting a smile at Sidney over his shoulder; and however poor Sidney’s Russian is, however work-in-progress Geno’s English is, they’ve never lacked a common language between them, cobbled together out of x’s and o’s and hand gestures and stick tapping as it is. Sid quickens his pace a bit, until he pulls even with Geno, and Geno lists towards sidney, knocking their shoulders together.

“Good game,” says Sidney, and knocks Geno’s shoulder back.

“Good win,” says Geno, glancing down at Sidney with that peculiar half-smile of his, like there is some delightful secret to share.

Sidney stares down at the long hall-way, stretched out in front of them, as they bring up the rear of their team, and then he smiles back at Geno, helpless. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s keep it up.”

(There is, Sidney finds, always more room in his heart than he’d expected. Love is an ever fiercer thing.)


End file.
